“The logical form itself
Is, in a sense, expressive.”
Today no shocks have followed
The tone shocks followed
On previous days.
“The rat has acquired
Another, new truth
That takes precedence:
‘But not today.’” At the sound
Of the tone, it’s not today.
Segue to regulation
Of expression by logic.
Shadows wing over our thoughts.
Ok, sit still. Breathe slowly.
The charioteer
Is a horse people’s conceit
For control, as the horses
Are conceits for tamed passions.
How self-domesticated
Can we possibly become?
Enough to invent more devilish
Chariots, deadlier games,
More ruthlessly binary
Systems and conceits.
The cortex is Inhaber,
Raising reason’s regiments
For a share of the plunder,
But the system is the king.
Prevarication
Is truth’s greatest gift.
The capacity to lie
Requires a capacity
To think what is and is not
And which someone means.
After the Great Fire
Could London have been rebuilt
With the Welsh bluestones
Quarried for Stonehenge?
Is such a question
More spleen than brain? The second
Question is the one that’s mad,
Not the first. A binary
Cannot be subsumed
By any fine monism,
Although the monist
Is right to call out
The dualist’s foolishness.
It’s that madness multiplies.
Binary oppositions
Refuse to be fused
And can never be condensed.
The expressive form itself,
Is, in a sense, logical,
Is many senses.
The rat will always acquire
Fresh truths. But not yesterday.
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